Forbidden Desire

CHAPTER 5

They drove back in heavy silence in the quiet of dawn. Atticus stared out the window, while Marga was lost in thoughts so dark they threatened to break her. She’d been foolish enough to assume they would track down the demon without delay—through the anguished haze in her mind, strung out by the desperate need to rescue Marissa, she’d completely forgotten Atticus couldn’t use his powers during the day. By the laws of nature, he was a creature of the dark, his magic inextricably linked to the reign of the night.

  She mentally reached out to sense his aura, but all she encountered was the average vibrancy of a healthy male mind and body, and though it appealed to the woman inside her, it differed little from a human energy pattern. Like his demon powers, Atticus distinctive preternatural aura lay dormant for the day.

  The same would hold true for Marissa’s captor, but Merle didn’t fool herself. Her sister would still suffer torment at the hands of the demon. Reduced to human powers and strength he might be, but a man didn’t need magical means to inflict pain on a woman. Just thinking about it made Merle sick to her stomach, made her hands tighten on the steering wheel until she couldn’t feel the leather anymore.

  If—no, not if—when she found that son of a bitch who’d dared lay a hand on her baby sister, she’d rip him apart limb by limb and watch it all grow back, several times, before she’d let Atticus kill him. Yes, that—and only that—might soothe the searing wrath in her blood.

  Glancing to her right, Marga watched Atticus stare at the dawning sky, his eyes drinking in the display of vivid colors like a starving man might devour a sumptuous buffet. Right, he hasn’t seen the sun rise in twenty years. Two decades of darkness and pain, a prison that would win any contest for Most Cruel Confinement, hands down. Considering the pain he must have suffered, he was surprisingly sane and…civil.

  As she turned the car onto the street leading to her house, Atticus picked up her MP3 player again and browsed through the content. He stopped short after a moment and peered at her, one eyebrow arched.

  “Don’t tell me the Rolling Stones are still alive.” His voice dripped with disbelief.

  “Yeah, well, more or less.”

  He grunted. “Impressive. I’d have thought they’d have partied themselves to their graves by now.”

  “I know,” she gave back, joining in his casual conversation before she knew what she was doing. “I never thought they’d outlive half of the Beatles.”

  Now he fully turned to her. “Which one of them died?”

  “George.”

  “So it’s down to Paul and Ringo now, huh? Pity.” He clucked his tongue. “Who else of the Bold and Beautiful bit the dust?”

  “Michael Jackson.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. Whitney’s gone, too.”

  He threw up his hands. “I leave this world alone for twenty years and look what happens.” He shook his head. “Next you’re gonna tell me David Hasselhoff still tortures humankind with his music.”

  Marga bit her lip. “Well…”

  He closed his eyes and held up a hand. “Please.”

  Smiling despite herself, she said, “You know, Arnold Schwarzenegger was governor of California.”

  Atticus glared at her. “Now you’re just being cruel.”

  She had to chew hard on the inside of her mouth to stop her laughter from bubbling up, laughter which felt so out of place right now, inappropriate considering the sorrows weighing her down. But for a precious moment seemingly stolen from another life, before stifling responsibility, loss and pain, she felt lighthearted, free, in the mood to joke. She wanted to tease, and it startled her. Amusement and joy didn’t come easily. She barely ever got playful, only laughed when Cara and Alonzo—friends who had grown as close as family—set their minds to it and coaxed it out of her, and it had been like this since long before Marissa’s abduction.

  Ever since her grandmother’s death, Marga had had to carry the weight of her inheritance as the family’s head, and slowly, surely, it had taken its toll. The balance of the magic abundant in the world was a frail one, easily disturbed, hard to control, and each line of witches was integral to this balance, with the head of the line being the vital part. Marga’s own essence had become intricately interwoven with the powers beyond as she’d assumed her responsibility, and—just as her fellow witches—she now had to take measures to uphold the balance. Sometimes, all it took was a small offering.

  Sometimes, small wasn’t enough.

  Marga shivered at the memory of the last time she’d had to appease the Powers That Be, had to pay them back for the magic she’d used. Fractured parts of her soul, blood that wouldn’t stop flowing…

  She shook her head, pushed the feeling of nauseous helplessness and growing depletion far away, locked it into the place reserved for the darkest of memories. It was the same place that held the image of a burning cherry tree, the smell of scorched flesh, the sound of screams echoing in the late afternoon. Screams that were her own.

  This, she thought, was why lighthearted laughter eluded her. It had died that day, sixteen years ago, long before her grandmother’s passing, long before Marissa had disappeared. For Marga, careless joy was part of a childhood which had ended too early, burnt to cinders like the tree she’d used to climb.

  She parked the car, got out and trudged up the steps to the veranda, with Atticus trailing behind. He was humming “Bad” by Michael Jackson, and he did it with such glee that Marga wanted to smack him.

  Once inside, she made a beeline for the library, where she perused the shelves, pulled out a volume here and there. Coughing at the dust whirling around her, she dumped the books on the large desk in the middle of the room. Atticus had followed her and now sauntered around the study, frowned at the mess of books and papers cluttering the carpet and the table, and then leaned against one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. His arms crossed in front of his chest, he focused those piercing bright eyes on Marga with an intensity that made her squirm inside.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Trying to create a vortex of chaos?”

  She barely stopped herself from throwing the volume she was holding straight at his head. The book was too valuable. “I’m doing research,” she said instead, rubbing her forehead with her free hand.

  “On what exactly? How to keep order? Because I can see you need some improvement in that field.”

  I can’t kill him, I can’t kill him, I can’t… She dropped the volume on a pile on the desk. “Maybe there’s something I’ve missed, some other way to find that bastard—”

  “Don’t bother. There isn’t.” He said it matter-of-factly, but still, the finality of his statement sucker-punched her in the guts. “That aside, you really should spend the idle daytime hours until sunset better than by uselessly skimming through dusty books. I think you should—”

  “If you’re suggesting I have sex with you…” she cut in, anger bubbling in her veins.

  Smirking, he shook his head. “You know, not everything I say is aimed at getting me into your sweet little panties.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want me to.”

  “I don’t.” Even to her own ears, her answer had come too quickly to be credible. Images of Atticus poised above her as she’d lain on the stairs flashed before her inner eye, and the parts of her body he’d touched heated in remembrance. The mere thought of what it would feel like to have all that impressive male strength between her legs, skin on skin, pumping fast, working her up until— “I don’t,” she repeated, her face flushed with all-too conscious embarrassment.

  “Uh-huh.” Atticus gave her a knowing look that only fueled the fire spreading in decidedly feminine parts of her body. “Well, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me with your Freudian slip-like suggestion—now, please, would you put down that book? There’s no need to start throwing things at me.”

  “Get to the point,” Marga snarled.

  He clucked his tongue. “Impatient, are we?”

  The book she’d been holding slammed into the shelf—missing him by a good three feet. Marga groaned. Never, even if her life depended on it, had she been able to hit a gods damn mark.

  Atticus had not even deigned to move, he’d just watched the literary missile fly past him, and now turned to Marga again, eyes dancing.

  “Maybe if you aimed for a spot a few feet to my right, you’d hit me.” He caught the next book in midair and pinned her with a serious look. “Marga. Stop throwing for a sec.”

  “What?”

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  That startled her like nothing else, made her pause. “I was asleep when you broke in here.” She lowered the book she was currently holding. “You know, after you left me bleeding on the mausoleum floor?”

  “Are you still mad at me about that? I did come back to you, little witch, didn’t I?” He strolled over, all sinuous moves and casual arrogance, his eyes intent on hers. When he stopped right in front of her, only inches away, his body heat brushed over her like a physical caress. “And just for the record, I did not leave you bleeding. I closed those holes.” He raised his hand and tapped one finger on the pulsing vein on her neck.

  It was such a fleeting, light touch, and yet it short-circuited Marga’s entire system. How could he affect her like this? He didn’t even have his damn demon powers! She checked her mental shields, reinforced them with meticulous effort, and yet…they hadn’t been breached in the least.

  “And back to my point,” he continued, examining her with a look that seemed to strip her bare, “that bit of sleep you caught a short while ago was what? Half an hour? A quick nap at the most. Now tell me, when was the last time you really slept?”

  Something inside her crumbled, and she closed her eyes, suddenly feeling the bone-tiring exhaustion she’d been fighting back with the force of her despair. Every muscle ached, her limbs burdened with lead. “Three days ago.”

  Atticus hand curved around her nape again, a touch so intrinsically possessive that it should have made her back away. At this moment, though, it somehow felt…right. Too tired to fight his slow erosion of her defenses, Marga relaxed in his hold, leaned her forehead against his chest. Just a little, just for a moment. By the gods, he felt good. Warm, hard, uncompromisingly male. She wanted to wrap him around herself.

  His breath brushed the top of her head. “You should rest.” Slowly, languorously, his fingers stroked her neck, and it was so damn soothing despite all her common sense. “You’ll be of no use to Marissa if you’re weak and tired. Sleep, and we’ll look for her come nightfall.” His other hand had come up to her lower back, a pleasant pressure, pushing her toward him.

  It was then that Marga realized she was letting him hug her. Oh, hell no.

  She snapped her eyes open, pulled back with a start, and stumbled as she stepped away from him. “You’re right.” Her heart pounded, her thoughts were a flustered mess. Avoiding eye contact, she started for the door, stopped, half-turned. “I’ll lie down for a few hours. You can watch TV, or read something, or do whatever demon stuff you usually do during daytime, as long as you stay inside and away from me. And don’t even try to leave—I’ll cast a spell that alerts me if you choose to skip and run, and believe me, you don’t want me chasing you down.” Thus spoken, she marched off out of the room and went upstairs.

  Damn sneaky demon.

  While walking to her bedroom, she cast the warning spell under her breath. “Within these walls, all hold and hide, allow no breach from either side.” It was actually more of a reinforcement of the wards to also work inwards, but it would do. Good thing her grandmother had made sure she learned basic spells by heart so she wouldn’t have to consult the grimier except for more complicated rituals.

  And right there, she stopped in her tracks. The grimier! She’d left it in the mausoleum when she’d scrambled out to get home and replenish her energy. Closing her eyes, she thumped her head against the doorjamb to her room and remained like that, her arms hanging down her side.

  For a moment, she pondered driving back to the cemetery to retrieve the book and her tools, then decided against it. If she didn’t fall asleep behind the wheel on the way to the cemetery, she’d sure as hell collapse there in the mausoleum. Atticus was right, she needed to rest, and the last place she wanted to sleep in was a graveyard. She’d locked the mausoleum on her way out, so her belongings would be safe until she’d pick them up later, after she—

  “Didn’t make it to your bed?”

  Marga whipped around—staggering—to find Atticus standing behind her, lips curved with unconcealed amusement.

  “You know,” he drawled, “I’d have carried you upstairs and made sure to tuck you into bed if I’d known you were that tired. I mean, you have to admit, sleeping against a doorjamb is not exactly comfortable…”

  Her eye twitched. And her exhaustion had little to do with that.

  He sauntered past her through the door. “So, this your bedroom?”

  She followed, keeping a wary eye on him. The way he prowled around her private sanctuary was a truly disturbing sight—a dark predator stalking the lair of its prey. He brushed his fingers over her dressing table, her jewelry, sniffed at her bottles of perfume, and studied the photo collage of her family and friends she’d hung on the wall above her bed. All the while, he moved with such disconcerting poise among her personal effects—as if he owned it all. It made her skin break out in goose bumps.

  “Listen, you really need to—” She stopped short and stared at him, baffled, and not a little terrified. “What are you doing?”

  He’d shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of the chair in front of her dressing table, and was now in the process of taking off his shirt. He paused in pulling it up. “You’ve seen a man undress before, haven’t you?”

She was too shocked to get mad at his quip. “Why are you doing that?”

  “Well, usually, people don’t go to bed in their street clothes. I certainly don’t. In fact, I prefer to be naked when I join a female in bed.”

  She stared. Blinked. Closed her eyes and rubbed them with the fingers of one hand. “You are not joining me in bed. If you want to sleep, use one of the other rooms.” She opened her eyes again and waved at the door.

  “You know that’s not going to work.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he exuded an amount of male arrogance that was impossibly disarming. “I’d just steal into here and snuggle up to you at some point anyway.”

  If she hadn’t been so weary, she might have smacked him for his smugness. And for sneaking the image in her mind of him snuggling up to her. Breathe. “I’ll lock the door then.”

  For a moment, he was silent, eyebrows arching. Then he laughed. And laughed. And just kept on laughing. While Marga gaped at him in outrage, he pulled off his T-shirt, still chuckling, and laid it neatly on top of the leather jacket.

  Marga continued gaping at him, only now it wasn’t in outrage anymore. Her gaze was glued to the display of rippling muscle and lickable skin in front of her. Why, gods, why? Of all the demons to recruit for help, she had to pick one with a swoon-worthy body.

  She mentally slapped herself back from lust-induced insanity. “I could just bind you in the Shadows again for the day.”

  “You could.” He kicked off his boots and proceeded to unbutton his jeans.

  Marga averted her eyes. Somewhere in this room must be her senses. If she didn’t look back at him, she might find them again.

  “But, then you’d have to unbind me again at sunset, which means you’d have to feed me your blood again. And—seeing how the Shadows tend to starve me out after only a few hours—I’d have to nearly drain you—again. You don’t want a repeat of that, do you?” Unhurriedly, with a natural confidence that was as magnetic as it was intimidating, he strolled over to her. Naked. Temptingly so.

Marga shook herself before she did something undignified like drooling at him. “Flesh and bone, still as stone,” she whispered harshly, infusing the words with magic.

  Her power surged, charged the air, and then whipped at Atticus. He froze. Features strained as if he were lifting a massive weight, he stared at her.

  “That’s not fair,” he pressed out through gritted teeth, obviously fighting against the magic holding him in place as if petrified. “I just wanted to snuggle.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marga raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms in front of her chest so he wouldn’t notice her hands shaking from the effort it took to keep the power flowing. “Maybe I’ll just leave you like this until nightfall. Like a classic demon statue.”

  At that, his lips twitched up. “I am gorgeous to look at.”

  Everything female inside her sighed in affirmation. Not that she’d ever tell him that. Or the fact she wouldn’t be able to keep up the paralysis spell for much longer. Even if she wasn’t strung out from lack of sleep and the strain of recent events, she’d have trouble holding him like that for the day, since for all its simplicity, the spell was energy-draining. Still, as far as a display of power went, it was quite impressive. She hoped.

  “You will get dressed and get out of here,” she said, as she felt her magic weaken. The spark inside her flickered, her control over the spell slipping. “I can easily freeze you again if you don’t comply, and I’ll make sure to mute you as well so I won’t have to listen to your complaints.” She didn’t have enough power left to pull that off, but he didn’t need to know that. She took a deep breath, and deliberately let go of the spell before it broke on its own and betrayed her waning strength.

  Atticus inhaled with noticeable relief—and then did a series of lazy, delicious stretches that all but eroded Marga’s ability to think rationally. Or think at all, for that matter.

  Mouth gone dry, skin heated and heart hammering at the erotic sight of his powerful frame in slow motion, she struggled to form words. All she managed to get out, her eyes riveted on the perfect firmness of his backside, was a rather unconvincing, “Now leave.”

  Ignoring her order, he moved toward her, slowly, giving her enough time to back away.

  She didn’t—couldn’t—but she tried for some presence of mind nevertheless. “I’m not letting you in my bed. Go sleep somewhere else.”

  Coming to a halt right in front of her, he took a hold of her oversized sweater. “Marga.” He tugged a little. She was about to snap at him, when he quietly added, “Please?”

  That stumped her. Baffled, she met his eyes. They held a glint of such honest yearning that something hard inside her cracked.

  “I just don’t want to sleep alone. I have been by myself for the past twenty years and…” He paused, held her gaze, no sign of wickedness in his expression. “I really need some company.”

  Marga swallowed, past a still dry mouth, past a growing lump in her throat, and an unbidden ache of sympathy in her chest. She couldn’t deal with him like this. If there had been the slightest indication he was trying to manipulate her, she’d have thrown him out without batting an eye. If he’d been as cocky and pushy as before, she’d have snarled at him and fought him. But this…this was more than she could handle. This genuine need in his eyes, this candor in his voice.

  “All right,” she said, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead with one hand. “You can sleep in my bed.” She didn’t have the heart to send him off, and quite frankly, she was also too tired to argue about this much longer. He was still convinced killing her would kick him straight back into the Shadows, so he didn’t pose a threat in that respect. As for the much more probable result of letting him into her bed… “No sex,” she added with narrowed eyes.

  He smiled, a subtle, seductive curving of his lips. Lips she kept telling herself she did not want to kiss. Did. Not. No, no, no. Wrenching her gaze away from his mouth, she looked at her closet door, her dresser, the ceiling, anywhere except at the temptation in front of her.

  His hand holding the seam of her sweater moved up until his fingertips grazed the skin above her waistband. Marga felt that touch much, much lower, and it had her trembling.

  “You can’t feed during the day anyway,” she managed to say.

  Another slight caress of his fingertips. “Who says I want you for nourishment?”

  “Atticus.” A warning. As much for him as for herself.

  “Hmm.” He stroked along the waistband of her jeans, just a little, just enough to make her breathe faster. “You’re right.”

  Now she did look up at him, her gut knotted tight in suspicion.

  “You should get some rest first. I can be demanding.”

  She opened her mouth to verbally slap him, but he shut her up by laying a finger on her lips.

  “Now, my little witch,” he said, “I’m going to peel this sweater off your body like I’ve been planning to do since you came down those stairs, and you’re not going to squirm because that’s all I’m going to do. Understood?”

  She stared at him, into his mesmerizing eyes now holding a quiet, spellbinding assurance. Seconds ticked by, along with her heartbeat. She gave a small nod.

  “Good.” His finger was still on her mouth, now rubbing her lower lip. “However, I’d be delighted to help you out of those jeans, too, if you’ll let me.”

  She shook her head, half in a trance. For a moment there, though, she’d considered it.

  “Too bad,” Atticus muttered.

  And then he lifted her sweater.

  His fingers and knuckles brushed her skin as he pushed up the fabric, without any haste, as if he had all the time in the world and had reserved it solely for relieving Margarita Chrysler of her sweatshirt.

  “Arms up,” he ordered, his voice calm.

  He never took his eyes off hers, holding her gaze with quiet force, even when she raised her arms and let him pull the sweater off over her head and throw it to the side. Only then did he lower his eyes—and stilled.

  He became absolutely, inhumanly motionless, his gaze so intent on her exposed skin, he might as well have touched her—it felt the same. Standing there, in front of him, bare-chested except for her bra and rooted to the spot by Atticus undivided attention, Marga got an inkling of what it must be like for a deer when a panther focused before it pounced.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. Immediately, Atticus pupils dilated, his eyes taking in the movement of her breasts as she inhaled. The sight of him unhinged her. Even divested of his powers, the way he looked at her now, the way he kept himself preternaturally still, feral hunger whispering behind a thin veneer of control, she realized he was the most dangerous creature she’d ever come toe-to-toe with.

  “Atticus,” she whispered. Her heart racing, she didn’t dare move or say anything else. It might just make him snap.

  He blinked, once, twice, then raised his eyes to meet hers. Bit by bit, he regained a more sane expression, though the single-minded intent was still plainly visible on his face. “You,” he said, his voice rough and low, “make it hard to be good.”

  Gods only knew, she so wanted him to be bad right now. Apparently, she had a suicidal streak. Before she could act on that, though, she took a hasty step back and muttered, “I’ll put on my pajamas.”

  She didn’t wait for his reaction and hurried to her closet, opened it and picked a set of shorts and a tank top. Hidden from Atticus gaze by the open door, she pulled on the tank top and proceeded to get rid of her bra underneath. Next she discarded her jeans and quickly put on the shorts. Sliding into the bed without looking at Atticus, she turned to lie on her side and covered herself with the blanket up to her chin.

  Her hands shook. Whether from the extreme exhaustion, which had gotten worse, or from the striking awareness of the naked demon who was getting in bed behind her just now, she didn’t know. Probably both.

  The mattress dented beside her, and the next moment Atticus had slipped underneath the blanket and up to her. Her wholebody tensed and she stopped breathing.

  “Shh.” His breath tingled on her neck. “Relax. Just snuggling up, remember?”

  “Right,” she ground out. His rock-hard erection pressed into her backside, and—gods have mercy on her soul—made her want to push back and rub up against him, give in to the warm tingles of excitement rushing through her body, melting her core. This was so wrong on so many levels. And yet, she didn’t even think of scooting away from him.

  “Take it as a compliment,” he said, and she could feel his lips curve against her neck.

  Slinging his one arm around her waist, he replaced the pillow under her head with his other arm and entwined his legs with hers. His hand slid up her torso to her rib cage, stopped there below the swell of her breasts, and pressed her back to his chest. It felt like he had wrapped himself around her.

  Marga was encased in immovable male strength, heat and raw power just short of overwhelming. She should have been terrified to be locked into his embrace like that—instead, she found herself relaxing into his touch.

  Yep, she was definitely suicidal. Maybe she’d gone delirious from her lack of sleep?

  “Don’t you dare make a move on me while I’m asleep, or I swear, I’ll make you regret it.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s much more fun when you’re awake and blushing.” He nuzzled the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. “Now sleep, little witch of mine.” Pressing her closer to him, he took a deep breath, his fingers curling into the thin fabric of her tank top, and it seemed as if he inhaled the essence of her being. He made a sound of utter relish and slowly exhaled.

  As Marga drifted off to sleep, she realized she was royally screwed.

  For nothing had ever felt more right than being wrapped in Atticus.